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Bill's Breakfast Stop
Each morning, I would wake up at 6am. Wiping the sleep from my eyes, I would slowly stagger to the bathroom and splash cold water on my face, hoping to wake myself up from the fog of the morning. After getting myself ready, I would rush downstairs and put the kettle on in a silent plea that coffee would transform me into a rational and awake human being. More often than not, this was not the case. Despite this, I found the effort to put my coat on, zip it up, lock my door and get into my car. Most mornings, the weather was mild, dull and windy. Daylight began to break as I started my drive, making the sky look as if it were cinnamon swirls in a grey cup of tea. I would turn the heating up so that my fingers could curl around the steering wheel feeling toasty. The bluetooth on my phone would automatically connect to my car, allowing me to listen to whatever I was into at the time. As soon as I pulled up to the first junction, I would notice the usual cars parked up on the side of the road at the ‘Bill’s Breakfast Stop’. The heating of the car sucked in the smell of crispy bacon and fresh bread rolls - it was divine. I never stopped for breakfast there but always imagined that one day I would. Sometimes I would silently nod to the cars parked as I began to turn right on towards the motorway. Sometimes I would even catch the eye of the chef who was serving a fried egg sandwich to a bearded truck driver with his high-visibility jacket on. I saw the truck driver so often, I named him Ted the Trucker, imagining that he liked dogs and whiskey. He probably liked neither. As I approached the motorway, I would always crane my neck to look down the decline of the slip road, checking that the traffic was flowing freely. The worst feeling in the world was the queue of traffic backing up and clogging the slip road. Inevitably, this meant that I would have to take a different route to work. If this did happen, I had a fool-proof plan. Quite simply, I would drive down the country lane that ran adjacent to the motorway. I would say that I was extremely familiar with this country route because it was the same one that I had taken going to school each morning for 12 years. My school, which was in a small village, was formally a convent. I often think back upon the fond and happy memories I have of my years here, especially travelling to school on the clapped-out minibus, chattering merrily with my friends both before and after the school day. I always remember how the roads seemed empty, apart from this tin of a vehicle trundling down a narrow lane with 14 school children singing along and flicking sweets at the driver. Poor sod. This country route was convenient because it began near the motorway and ended at an A road just outside my place of work. The only downside was that it took a good 20 minutes extra travelling time. However, it did not matter because this was not my usual route to work. Three weeks after the start of September, I woke up to a heavy drizzle of rain. The sun was a pale yellow in the grey sky and the wind whipped up each crisp, brown leaf, throwing it with no mercy against my legs as I battled my way into my car. Luckily, as soon as I turned my engine on, the heating blasted my cold limbs, warming me up. Driving along, I realised I wasn’t feeling the music I was streaming on my phone. I looked down at my phone, trying to find some music that I wanted to listen to. All of a sudden, the car in front of me slammed on their brakes and I nearly careered into the back of them. Dropping my phone onto the passenger seat, I frantically grasped at the steering wheel, studying what had happened before my eyes. The person in front had lost a wheel cap and it was zig-zagging across the lanes. Indicating, I accelerated around them and carried on my journey. As I pulled up to the first junction, I scanned the usual clientele of the ‘Bill’s Breakfast Stop’. No one I recognised, although the chef was there, serving whatever delicacies he had cooked to whoever was buying. I sighed as my stomach rumbled - a wave of desire washed over me as I knew I wanted a bacon sandwich. Throwing caution to the wind, I indicated to turn and pulled up outside of the Breakfast Stop. As I wrapped my scarf around my neck and clambered out of my car, the wind swiftly wafted the smell of cooking across my nostrils. I knew I had made the right choice. Walking up the counter, I noticed that the chef had locked his grey eyes on mine and was smiling quite a sickly smile. I ordered my bacon sandwich, paid for it and was nervously fiddling with my change. I glanced back to my car, anticipating someone trying to break in to it or spray paint it. I was feeling ridiculous and nervous - I had never stopped her before despite it feeling so familiar. Nothing happened. The chef gave me my bacon sandwich, brushing my hand with his as he gave it to me. A bit strange, but hey, maybe he only sees bearded truckers instead of my type. I stuffed the sandwich in my mouth, brown sauce oozing down my throat and smudging around my lips. Finishing my sandwich, I wiped the crumbs from my face and licked my fingers - I was ready to drive onwards. I got into my car, driving off towards the motorway. Craning my neck, I could see a queue of cars on the slip road and onto the carriageway. I was not impressed because this was typical! Not only had I just made myself late by grabbing breakfast, I was now going to be late because I had to take the country route to work. Despite this, I didn’t feel too put out because I enjoyed the country scenery. The rain had stopped and the sky was beginning to turn a desirable shade of warm peach. The country lane was quiet. There were no cars and there were no school minibusses. I checked my ear view mirror and it was clear. I checked my side mirrors and they, too, were clear. I carried on. Considering there were no other vehicles to emergency stop in front of me, I decided to put some music on. As soon as I pressed play, an awful static sound began to trickle out of the speakers. It crackled and dragged, making me wince at the discomfort. I turned the sound off and carried on driving. Just then, in the corner of my eye, I noticed movement in the rearview mirror. It couldn’t possibly be another car, no one ever came this way. I looked in the mirror, there was nothing there. Sighing, I began to hum to myself. I then saw movement, a distorted, grey shape in the passenger wing mirror. This was starting to concern me, so I made sure my car doors were all locked. As I began to accelerate, the smell of bacon began to circulate through my air vents - maybe I shouldn’t have stopped for that sandwich after all. I looked down at the speedometer and then back out of the windscreen at the winding road infant of me, laced with golden autumnal leaves. I was speeding now as I felt something was not quite right. I did not even think about what I did next. Looking in the rearview mirror, as I naturally did when driving, I saw a grey face looming above my car. It had long, white eyes that had no pupils and its mouth was drawn out and distorted. Screaming, I moved to fix my gaze on the road ahead, trying desperately to fight the urge to look behind me. As soon as I did, the being appeared at the bonnet of my car, emitting an awful dragging sound out of its dropped mouth. Swerving, I crashed my car into a tree at the side of the road and everything stopped. The cinnamon swirl sky had gone black. Waking up, I could feel the blood congealing on my forehead. I tried to feel at it with my fingers, but my wrists were chained together. Struggling and writhing around, I noticed I was in a dark, gloomy, damp room. It was as if I was in an old barn. I could almost smell the rot of the walls and feel the cold gnawing through to my bones. Desperately trying to scream, I realised that I was gaged and couldn’t make any noise at all. I began to cry and shake. I noticed movement on my left side and I could see that it was a familiar face. Ted the Trucker was lying, with his legs contorted into an unnatural shape with a gag on. He looked at me with fear and terror in his eyes. I tried to scream to communicate with him but it was pointless - no sound came out of my mouth. All of a sudden, a figure crept up beside me. Into my view came the chef from Bill’s Breakfast Stop. He knelt beside me and turned his head, sniffing into my neck. He smelt like mould and rotting meat. I noticed that he was holding a dull, stained knife. He swiftly got up and grabbed at an old, wooden table. I could see that there was an old electric camping stove on the table. The chef took a lighter out of his pocket and lit it. Carefully, he reached over and took a rusty frying pan that was hanging from the rotting barn wall, placing it on the camping stove. I had no idea what he was about to do. As my heart pounded, I watched him slink over to Ted the Trucker. In one slow, drawn-out movement, he ripped part of Ted’s high-visibility jacket off. Ted frantically thrashed around, his arms flailing but failing to do anything because his wrists were cuffed. The Chef took a stained, dull knife from his pocket and began to carve away at Ted the Trucker’s bicep. With a sickly smile on his face, the Chef dangled a piece of flesh over the frying pan and dropped it in. I could hear it sizzle viciously. He took a rag from his top jacket pocket and shoved it into Ted’s face. I could see Ted’s face move from side to side as he tried to resist the rag but he succumbed and dropped, weak and limp to one side. “Fresh meat,” said the chef in a raspy, terrifying voice. He slowly began to creep towards me. “We’ve got bacon sandwiches to make,” he said as he brandished the rag in my face. I began to scream and writhe away but it was no use, the world went black… Category:Mental Illness